


A Fateful Step, a Fateful Chance

by savemyunicornclarence



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Police, Running Away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7215574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savemyunicornclarence/pseuds/savemyunicornclarence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus runs away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fateful Step, a Fateful Chance

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Harry Potter. JK Rowling does. 
> 
> Also, the child abuse is not graphic, and will not be. The high ratings is just for precaution.
> 
> I do not know if there would be any relationships, and if they were they would probably be slash.
> 
> I will update sporadically for this fic.
> 
> Don't mind the title ... trying to figure out what to name it, and will rename it if I think it is necessary.

Thump, thump went the heart. 

Thump, thump sprawled the body. 

Thump, thump dropped the blood. 

Bind, bind constricted.

Gasp, gasp - breathe. 

He staggered back, tripping over his feet. Eyes wide. His hands fluttered in the air, not knowing what to do. It was everywhere, this redness. Like petals carelessly thrown in the air, they fell to consume the room. 

Bend, bend - heave. 

Heave, heave - gag. 

Gag, gag - breathe.

He skidded as he turned to run. Eyes were blind, like the shutters closed in every home. Hands were grasping for stability, but there was nothing. Everything was disintegrating before his eyes. He was lost, lost in this closing world. He twisted, feeling the glide of violent hands. No! No! There it was - the escape. He never felt so much elation, panicked riddled euphoria, at the rectangle with the ill fitted door banging from the wind. He leaped from the porch, rolling in the grass. Its brittle stalks crunched beneath him. He eyed the breathing mass of rage, pure unadulterated rage. It glared and roared, but as if caged in its own hell, it didn’t go down the steps. 

He wanted to sleep, and never wake up, but he couldn’t. Not so close. Never so close ever again. He ran down the street, feeling the overwhelming claustrophobia of the houses towering over him, waiting to engulf him into their own violent pasts. 

He ran. He ran. He ran. 

Everything burned, a welcomed feeling from the numbness killing him slowly from the inside. He tripped, stumbling onto the ground. Palms and knees scraped. Breaths were ragged, barely accepting oxygen, as he rolled onto his back. Sweat drenched him, and he felt like he was drowning. 

The twilight sky pleasantly dimmed the world in shadows. The soft purples curled in the sky, with red splattered throughout with a careless hand. The breeze cooled his heated body. Hands absently pulled up grass. 

He turned his head from side to side, too tired to lift it. Where was he? His mouth was dry, lips puckering, and he swallowed spittle. It didn’t help, a futile attempt. He needed water. Water, the liquid of life, vast and seemingly infinite, mirroring the sky. Cool, soothing water. Even warm water - just need - intense, stabbing cravings. 

He shivered, suddenly cold. The pretty sky was no longer, now dark with silver flecks. No moon either. He grunted. Stomach ached. Legs ached. Arms ached. Neck ached. He never knew how much his body would ache. He groaned, as he rubbed his stomach. How unpleasant. 

He couldn’t stay out here. Not without shelter from the elements. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere inside. It was a mild, summer night … he was cold. A shiver quaked down his body. He pinwheeled for a second, almost falling back to the ground. He shoved his damp hair out of his face, turning this way and that way. Where should he go? He was blinded with panic. He should have paid attention. There were too many should have’s to regret, so he let it slip through his fingers. 

It could have been hours (it was still dark, so it couldn’t have been that long), but he finally saw a building. It was overgrown with flowers, luminescent white. He inhaled the distinct rose aroma. It was in disrepair, but the cottage wasn’t falling apart. Just abandoned. He creaked open the door. It was better than nothing. He sniffed, but the plethora of foliage was overwhelming. Vines were tangled upon the wall, like butterflies to a board. Severus stumbled towards a door, for he saw a corner of a bed. He would investigate his shelter tomorrow, but for now, he would rest. 

He blinked rapidly at the sunlight pouring through the window panes and leaves. Green and gold danced across the scarred wooden floor. He stretched, mindful of his aches. The bed was comfortable, and he wanted to stay, to lounge in the safety of its confines. His stomach disagreed. 

He yawned, scratching his hairline slightly. He would need to shower - the itchy, crawling feeling covered him. He wasn’t dirty. No matter what others taunted him with, he did like to be clean. He grimaced, pushing those memories into a tightly sealed container. 

He stiffly walked into the kitchen area. He detected the warmth under the dust. The bashful flashes of green, complementing the dark wood cabinets. It was a quaint, beautiful cottage. He dug through cabinets, but there was nothing but dust. He huffed in annoyance. 

The cottage had to be on someone’s property. He didn’t see any realtor sign outside. He bit his lips. Everything was swimming. He leaned against the counter, faint from hunger and thirst. He would have to find water and food. 

He exited the cottage, figuring he should get some sense of his surroundings. Again, the heady aroma assaulted him, and he frantically blocked his nose. He had a sensitive nose, always had. The soft grass squished under his feet, and he wiggled his toes in the fresh dirt. He wondered where his shoes went. They were pretty ratty, so he wouldn’t have been surprised if they fell apart when he was running. He looked up, covering his eyes at the sunlight. It was a clear day. He breathed in the air. Country side. He was really far. Back there he would never have been able to breathe just air. It was always polluted. It blinded your senses, until the smog crawled inside of you - filth, dirt, scum. 

He kicked around some stones, absently. He was surrounded by a forest on one side and a stretching meadow on the other. He swatted at a bug, continuing his discoveries. A bucket. He could use that - these cottages, especially as old as the one he was inhabiting, had wells. There it was! He hobbled over to the well, eagerly licked his lips. 

Water. 

He brushed aside the weeds that clung with tenacity. He lifted the handle, cold in his hands, and pumped it. It creaked and sputtered, and he feared for its life. Finally, sluggish water tumbled out. He filled the bucket, until the water came out clearly, like a beautiful melody, a girl’s clear laughter like bells. He dumped out the water. He grimaced in distaste. He didn’t need to know of the animal life that happened to be in it. The water spilled across the grass. He placed the bucket on top of the well, making sure it wouldn’t tip over. He grabbed the handle and pumped it.

Water. 

He tilted the bucket, barely keeping his hold on the body of it, and drank. He sipped slowly, but his greediness overcame him. He gulped it down, the water weighing heavily on his stomach. But he wasn’t thirsty anymore, nor was he hungry. He rubbed his aching stomach, not just from running, but from the water. 

Good. Plenty of water, which meant he could stay here a while longer.

He pumped another bucket and carried it into the cottage. He placed it in a small area. He could only presume it was a preservation of sorts. It was cooler than the rest of the house. 

Food. 

He couldn’t survive only on water. He wished he could go into the forest and forage. He didn’t dare go into the open spaces. Too little hiding places, in case someone saw him. He wasn’t a total dud. He knew his poisonous plants from the edible, the analgesics from the harmful. 

His stomach grumbled, reminding him of the utmost importance of ingesting something, anything. He hadn’t eaten in … a day or so. 

He poked in the garden, pulling up carrots, potatoes, and onions, from under the brush. It was a miracle the weeds haven’t choked them yet. He pulled up the rest of the weeds, clearing them from the garden. He smiled, wiping sweat after he was done. His palms burned, and his hands were slightly bloody from thorns and whatnot. 

He felt as if he was in a story. The convenient cottage, shabby but livable. The garden still thriving under the weeds. The well with clean water. A mirthful chuckle escaped him, scraping up his throat and dashing out. He rubbed his neck in surprise. He didn’t remember the last time he had laughed. But the situation called for it. All he needed was a hero, or a heroine, whichever, then he could live happily ever after - riding into the horizon with a love-blissed smile and endless dreams. 

He snorted. 

Right. 

Like that was ever going to happen. To him of all people! He didn’t believe in fairy tales, never had. Not even as a child. He knew of the monsters that were in the room next door, never mind under the bed or in the closet. He gulped in deep breaths (Gasp, gasp - breathe). But that was in his past, he ran. He escaped, and he lived to tell the tale. He was his own hero, in his own world, which he was slowly carving out amidst the peaceful surroundings. 

He felt like he was in a cocoon, wrapped in silk threads, safe from the world, but also blind. He peeked out the window, sad at the day where he would have to step outside the crumbling stone wall. He was content, finally happy, or at peace. He never knew of happiness, and he wondered if this was what is was like. A cocoon, a gilded cage, a facade, a fairy tale. 

He poured water into a pan. Could he do magic? He knew wandless … would the Aurors come? Would they see the world he was building for himself? He found that food took precedence. He snapped his fingers, boiling the water, and then dicing the vegetables. Satisfied, he dumped them into the water. It would be plain, having no thickness (since he had no cream of any sorts) and no taste (no salt or pepper) … there must be herbs. With such a lovely garden, there must be herbs. 

He made sure the fire wouldn’t spread, or anything disastrous, before venturing outside. He trembled from the cooling temperatures. He only had a thin shirt, thankfully with long sleeves, and pants. He poked around, squinting in the amber light. He grinned, plucking basil and rosemary. It was enough to spice the soup. 

What his luck! Or Fate must have smiled down upon him … he faltered slightly, before pushing it out of his head. Yes, he was lucky, in little ways. 

He sprinkled the herbs on top. He eyed the potatoes. He slowly dimmed the fire, until it fizzled out. He poured it into a bowl. He inhaled the steam, stomach growling. He would have to be patient. With no utensils, but only having dishes, he would have to wait for the food to cool. 

He hunkered down on the floor, cradling the bowl in his hands. He lifted it to his lips, blowing softly. He sipped. Then he gulped it down. 

He groaned, bending over. Too fast! He ate way too fast. 

But it was heavenly. 

His stomach was quiet. The taste wasn’t bad. It was thin, but he couldn’t do anything about that. He was cooking only with water! No milk or cream to make a heavy broth. 

He wiped his mouth. He scooped some water into the bowl, washing it. He lidded the pan and put it into the cellar. He took another drink of cool water and stretched. His eyes hooded, eyelids drooping down. He yawned, rubbing his eyes. Barely night time, but he was tired. He shuffled to bed and dropped on it. He snuggled into the blanket and fell away from the world. With a happy stomach, he closed his eyes, shutting himself in memories and dreams. 

~~~

“Mr. Snape, where is your son?”

The bloodshot-eyed man glared at the police officer. 

“I told ya, I don’t know.”

Officer Traulier leaned forward with a disbelieving sniff. Mr. Snape was crazy, absolutely bonkers. He arrested him last night, when he went to the bar covered in blood. A day old blood. He murdered his wife, and his son was missing. From a plethora of rumors, Mr. Snape was a drunkard, a mean, shitty scum who liked to beat his wife and son. 

Officer Traulier did not accept such actions. He had his own family, and he couldn’t dream of touching a hair on their heads with harmful intent. 

“He ran off! Pathetic, snivelling slime!” Humorless laughter echoed in the interrogation room, and chills stabbed down his spine. Something so dark and crazed shouldn’t know of laughter, let alone twisting it into a parody. “Covered in blood, he was,” Mr. Snape leaned forward, breath coming in gasps. Traulier stopped himself from flinching backwards, away from the stench of Mr. Snape’s breath. “Most beautiful he ever was, then, and I wanted him! But he ran. Jumped and disappeared.” 

Officer Traulier slammed his hands down, but he knew that he didn’t have control. Disgust, revulsion, fear, and desperation warred on his face. “We’re done.” He fled, swallowing down bile. He heaved into the trash can, but nothing came out. 

“Vile, isn’t it, Jimmy?”

“H-how could he? His own wife and child!”

“There’s always a bad apple-”

“A bad apple!” He yelped. He jabbed his finger into his partner’s chest, “He isn’t a bad apple. He’s rotten to the core! A disease. Filth! Hurting his-his-”

“We see bad things, Jimmy. The job requires it. Especially in this part of town. Lots of cases of abuse.”

“Then, why don’t we help them?”

“No one reports them,” Larry shrugged. “Nothing we can do, less someone reports it, or there is clear evidence. But they’re tight lipped people, set in their ways. No tattling to the police.”

“Don’t they want to leave?” Jimmy ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further. “Why, why don’t the children report it?”

“Because they don’t wanna be a sneak, a tattle. Pride is everything to them. It’s all they got. If they have to handle a smack here and there, then so be it.” Larry grunted, settling his bulky frame into the chair. 

Jimmy sank into his own chair, looking at his partner. The almost frightfully cold eyes with grim set lines embedded deep into a hard face. Larry spoke too certainly. “You’re from this part of town, aren’t you?”

“Aye, kid. Knew of the Snapes. Lived in another neighborhood. Terrible lot, they were, even by our own standards.” Larry inhaled, as if sucking on a pipe. “You wouldn’t know, though. Jimmy Traulier, hailing from a fancy ass school with a fancy ass education. Young and naive, thinking he can change the world … But the world is a scary place. Filled with many secrets.” Hooded eyes glittered at him, and Jimmy, once again, had chills dance down his spine. He looked away first, not knowing what to think. 

He didn’t know of such a reality. Who could accept abuse as a way of life? He was taught at a young age, that if there was even an intimation, true or not, to report it to the authorities. The police officers, the one that stood guard against anarchy and utter chaos, were the heroes. 

His head buried in his arms. Larry was right. He was naive. He was young. But he could do what he could, changing it one step at a time for the better. He gulped down the cold coffee with a grimace. 

Severus Snape … 

~~~

_His eyes were open, unseeing. He was under the roof, the same cracked roof, crumbling as voices were raised. He whimpered, hiding under the bed. It was marginally safer than anywhere else. He shrank inwards, ignoring his body’s protests. The voices were battling, more like one voice with a whisper of murmurs._

_He whipped around, startled, flushing. He jammed the heels of his palms into his eyes. It was war downstairs, and he was scared. He couldn’t deny the shameful feeling. It drew his balls tight, and it bruised his skin pale. He shook as the violence grew and grew, rising and rising. It would never stop. Not ever._

_The silence fell upon like a cannonball upon him. It crashed, shrapnel shattering everywhere. The world waited, not even breathing, as it grew and grew, rising and rising. He crawled from underneath the bed. He winced as a spring caught into his hair. He gently unwound it, smoothing it down. He wiped the grease onto his pants. His legs shook as he stumbled towards the door, like a fawn entering into the dangerous world. He turned the knob, praying and praying. It couldn’t be true. It was too quiet. The darkness grew and grew, rising and rising._

_The steps creaked, but the silence engulfed it whole. He saw it. The hulking mass of such rage. It was like Death itself. Stringy hair, dirty face, sinewy arms, and pale, pale skin. A form of a nightmare, and he inched towards it. He didn’t have the courage to breath. It turned around. He scrambled back. Lashes of horror whipped at him, leaving him bloody and scarred. No …! Screams tore through him, as it leapt towards him._

He sprung upwards, chest rapidly rising and falling, mouth open in a silent scream. Sweat dripped down his face, and he twisted the damp sheets in his hand. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. 

He burrowed his head in his hands. Would he ever escape? Even this haven was tainted. He glanced around wildly. Moonlight streamed through rustling leaves. Washed out blue calmed his senses. He was in the cottage. Just a nightmare. He inhaled, held it for seven seconds, and exhaled. He repeated it, feeling his mind grasping at clarity. The repetition bore a semblance of normality, and he clung to it like a drowning sailor. 

He fell back. He would have to wash the sheets tomorrow morning. He twisted onto his side, facing the night. He was never scared of the darkness, of loneliness. The darkness hid him, and being alone meant he was safe. So no, he wasn’t scared, just … he was frightened. Frightened of the future, not childish fears. 

As the sun’s light caressed the sky with shy hands, Severus decided he will get up. He stripped the bed of its sheets and bundled them together. He wondered if there was a creek nearby … he’ll just use a bucket of water. He dumped the sheets on dew covered grass. 

“There must be another bucket,” he muttered, “or a tub. That’ll do just as well.”

Again, he thanked Fate. In a shadowed corner, there was a tub. He lifted it, arms trembling. It must have been a well made tub - heavy. The handle went up and down, glinting in the sun. He breathed in the air, enjoying himself, despite everything. Here he was, surviving, living on his own. 

He hesitated, but then stripped himself of clothes. He looked around, as if he was expecting someone to jump up and yell, “Pervert!” He huffed shaking his head. He needed to wash his clothes, and he only had one set of clothes, the one’s he was wearing. There wasn’t anything he could do. Besides, he was alone. 

He watched the sheets slowly submerge under the water. He shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, pale skin already reddening. He went inside, just leaving the sheets to soak. He’ll change them in a few hours, then hang them to dry. On what? He hadn’t a clue, but so far, he was lucky. 

He sipped at the lukewarm soup. He closed his eyes, enjoying the solitude. It was peaceful, lonely … but he would prefer being lonely to the potential harm others could do to him. He didn’t like that. Who would? In fact, he hated it. All his life, punches and kicks were thrown his way, harder and harder, faster and faster. No begs appeased the abuser. Then Hogwarts, the castle of magic and dreams. He could become someone - not the weird kid with odd scraps of clothing nor the pariah on the street; not the kid everyone would pity for his miserable lot in life. He would reinvent himself! Make friends … he always wondered what it would be like to make a friend, anyone really would do. It would be so lovely to talk to someone, laugh, cry - just, well, anyone that he could trust. It would be brilliant. 

He should have known not to deceive himself with such illusions. 

Him? Severus Snape? Friends? Pfft, talk such nonsense! ‘He is a greasy, slimy good-for-nothing scum. Didn’t you hear? His father is the worse of them all. The mum? Ah, we have never seen her. Ever. But the kid … he’s a shifty bastard, I tell ya. Don’t trust him. Got the Devil’s eyes, he does.’ 

He just wanted a friend. 

Severus cleaned the dishes, shaking the pitying comments out of his head. No need to dwell on things he couldn’t change. Everyone distrusted him here. Everyone hated him at Hogwarts. What was new? He shouldn’t have expected anything else. 

There you go again, Severus! Stop thinking of it. You can’t change it, so focus on what you can control. It’s for the best anyways. 

Severus slammed down on the counter. Now, he was talking to himself. Arguing with himself! Will wonders never cease? 

He squatted down, confused. He was sixteen. A year away from majority, and he will never have to blight upon this town again. But that was a year away. What would he do in the next 365 days? He needed to find a job. Home first, then a job. He applied once, when he was fourteen, but the shopkeeper rejected him with thinly veiled words. He knew why. It was because of his very existence. 

He sighed, knees crumbling from under him. The floor was cool beneath his arse and thighs. He leaned his head against the cabinets. He didn’t know what to do. He gnawed on his lips. 

A plan. He was a Slytherin. He was supposed to be cunning, ambitious, thinking ahead. Winning. 

He didn’t feel like he was winning. He didn’t feel smart. He didn’t feel as if he knew what he was going to do in the next minute, let alone the next days, weeks, months, year, years! He burrowed his head in his knobbly knees. Oh, he was screwed. He swallowed the bile churning in his throat, tongue swiping over teeth. He wanted to brush his teeth. He wanted to feel safe! This no longer felt safe. Tears prickled in his eyes, and he sniffled. 

He dug his heels of his palms into his eyes, relishing the slight ache. Colorless fireworks exploded in his eyes, and he studied on those. A swaying sensation overtook his head, and he felt faint. The tears retreated. He blinked his eyes multiple times. He would finish the wash, and then he would allow himself to faint. 

He quickly hung the sheets over overturned and various gardening tools, making sure the hems were not touching the ground. He dumped the water, filled it, and stabbed his clothes into it. He checked it over and found it satisfactory. 

He then shambled towards the bedroom and collapsed on the bare mattress. Before his head touched the bed, his eyes were closed, and he was gone. 

~~~

Jimmy tapped his pencil against the worn table. It was against protocol, but he brought the file home. He couldn’t help himself. It rubbed him wrong. Scores of people turning a blind eye to abuse. He chewed on his thumb. 

“Daddy?” 

“Yes, son?”

“G’night.”

“G’night, Corey.” He hugged the small body to his chest. He kissed the scratched forehead. “Where’d you get that?”

“I was playing. I was a knight, proteting my princess! But I got an owie.” 

“It’s protecting, Core,” he chuckled. He stared into the sweet, innocent eyes. “I love you, Corey.”

“I love you, too, Daddy.” His son kissed him on the cheek and ran to Mum. 

She smiled at him, eyes flickering towards the file. “I’ll just put him to bed, then I’ll make tea.”

“Okay,” he sighed, fatigued. It’s been another day. Another day of Severus Snape being gone. He must have gone far, because the hounds weren’t catching his scent. He rubbed his jaw, stretching. He went to take a sip of coffee, but put it down. He didn’t remember finishing it.

“Hard day at work, Jimmy?” She asked after making tea. A mug was placed before him, and he gratefully sipped at it.

“Thanks, Alyssa, and it’s this case,” he shoved at it frustrated. “Been eating at me.”

“What happened?”

Jimmy gazed into the hazel eyes of his wife, and he knew that she would never tell a soul. He kissed her hand, caressing it absently. “This kid, Severus - yeah, abnormal name - ran away. The monster was abusive! Violently so. We speculate that he murdered his wife, and Severus ran away. The hounds aren’t getting his scent. He just disappeared.” Jimmy paused, pushing away memories of blood, so much blood, and a slim figure draped in it. “You know, the wife, Eileen, she was beautiful. Small and delicate, and she was married to such a … demon. There are no words for it, Allie! I don’t understand … who could have done that to their own wife and kid?”

Alyssa hugged Jimmy to her chest. There were no words, nothing that she could to dispel the memories or the confused agony. All she could do was offer her support and love. 

“I’m confident that you’ll find Severus, love. No child can just disappear like that.”

Jimmy clenched tightly, burrowing into the fragrant warmth. “But’ll he go to the orphanage, and sometimes, that is worse.”

Alyssa didn’t speak. She knew all too well how horrible those orphanages were. She ran her hands through soft, brown hair. Jimmy had a good heart, set in the right place. She just didn’t know if he was strong enough to witness such atrocities.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not know where this is heading, but I need to exercise my writing. I have no clue what to do with Family Away from Home and Blinking, There You Stand. They are not abandoned, but just progressing slowly. :) Forgive me, please, for my slowness.


End file.
